


head over heels (for no one but you)

by pollinaire



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Frottage, Grinding, M/M, Morning Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sock Garters, Socks, toe sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 02:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollinaire/pseuds/pollinaire
Summary: He’s lying on his side of the bed, warm and cushioned between the blankets and the pillows and Hank, still asleep with his lips parted and breath coming heavy. Hank seems to be sleeping quite soundly, Connor notes, even when he turns himself over to place a quick, dry kiss on his cheek. This close, he can easily see the gap between Hank’s front teeth. He wants to kiss him again, on the cheek and on the lips, and rest his head on Hank’s chest. He imagines he could stay there all day, the two of them pressed together. They could call out of work. It would be uncomplicated.





	head over heels (for no one but you)

**Author's Note:**

> >tfw no bare connor feetsies in game

Connor wakes up late today.

When he exits his stasis program, the bright winter sun is already sitting high enough to filter through the window, dappling cool light and shadow across the carpet. It is well over an hour later than he expected to be getting out of bed. This late in the morning, he should have already gotten dressed for the day, taken the dog outside, sat himself on the couch with a book to read and a hot cup of coffee prepared for Hank. He doesn’t want to get up.

Maybe, Connor thinks, this is the most surprising aspect of free will. His programming was created to value strict adherence to instructions and schedules. But right now, bundling up in a nest of blankets and pillows sounds more satisfying than any of the tasks he’s set for himself.

He’s lying on his side of the bed, warm and cushioned between the blankets and the pillows and Hank, still asleep with his lips parted and breath coming heavy. Hank seems to be sleeping quite soundly, Connor notes, even when he turns himself over to place a quick, dry kiss on his cheek. This close, he can easily see the gap between Hank’s front teeth. He wants to kiss him again, on the cheek and on the lips, and rest his head on Hank’s chest. He imagines he could stay there all day, the two of them pressed together. They could call out of work. It would be uncomplicated.

Instead, he resigns to get up and out of bed, the chilly bite of the late winter air hitting his bare legs. He busies himself in the shared closet of their bedroom, changing into freshly washed and folded boxer briefs and a shrugging a crisp, clean white cotton shirt around his shoulders. Connor returns to the bedside as he does up the buttons on his dress shirt. He curls his toes into the plush carpet while he stands at the bedside.

It isn’t often that he waits and watches at Hank’s side while he sleeps. It feels rewarding in his own way, if a little self-indulgent, to allow his senses to dull until he feels nothing but acute awareness of Hank’s body in front of him. The soft ache of contentment spreads through his biocomponents.

Connor tilts his head to the side as he observes. Hank’s breath has gone softer and shallower now, in the last fleeting moments between sleep. Connor feels a little chagrined at the thought of being caught staring. He’s only got his dress shirt buttoned from the shirt tails up to his navel by the time Hank’s eyes crack open.

He looks warm and bleary from sleep. It takes him only a few seconds to sit up in bed, and in the meantime Connor skims his fingers along the placket of his shirt. Hank extends a hand to wave him over, and when Connor takes another step, he pulls him down to the bed to sit tucked between his crossed legs.

“Did you sleep well?” Connor says. His back rests against Hank’s chest, against the worn-soft cotton of his t-shirt. His knees are bent and his legs are off to the side, draped over Hank’s thigh with care.

“Good morning, baby,” Hank’s voice is slurred and thick with sleep. “I slept good.”

Baby, Connor thinks distantly behind the rushing in his ears. He repeats the sound clip back to himself, plays it again in Hank’s voice, focuses on the way it sounds hushed and hidden under Hank’s breath. Connor likes the way it makes him feel, being Hank’s baby, something soft and vulnerable and worth protecting. Something Hank can hold close, wrap up in his arms and keep safe.

Something Hank can keep only for himself.

He can feel his biocomponents twist hotly. It’s a sensation he wants to track down and pursue until it consumes him entirely.

Hank’s coarse beard is still brushing against the soft join of his neck and his shoulder, and so Connor reaches a hand to the back of Hank’s head, guiding him down until he nuzzles in rougher. Connor’s breath comes in quick, soft huffs. He can feel pinpricks of his synthetic skin being worn away by the abrasion, leaving ghostly white patches of his chassis exposed for just a second before they weave back together again.

Hank brings his hands along the line of Connor’s body, from where they’re cupped on the side of Connor’s torso, down to his long, lean legs. When he reaches his foot, he grabs it gingerly between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Hey,” Hank says against the crook of Connor’s neck, “Where’d you leave your socks?”

“They’re in the bathroom hamper,” Connor answers easily, though he’s focused on the way Hank is running his thumb against the freckle on his right ankle. “Where all dirty laundry goes.”

Hank rolls his eyes behind him. “Fine. Where’re your clean socks?”

“In the bottom drawer, on the left. Where I always keep them,” Connor starts to shift around to look at Hank, his brow furrowed. “Do you want me to get them?”

“No! Christ. Just stay right there, okay?” Hank grumbles as he moves away. Connor does as he’s instructed and sits still, legs folded to his side as he sits on top of the bed, and waits. He misses the heat of Hank’s body behind him, and the press of his hands. The way his stomach slots perfectly against his back when they sit together. Connor adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, the unexpected murmur of anticipation low in his chest.

When Hank returns, he slides himself onto the bed at Connor’s side, a neatly folded pair of Connor’s black trouser socks held in his hand. He’s got a set of elastic sock garters slung over his shoulder. Connor tilts his head and gives him a questioning look.

“Thought maybe you could use a hand getting dressed today,” Hank answers. A half of a smirk tugs at his lips, like he’s got a secret that he isn’t quite ready to give away just yet.

“That’s very generous of you, Hank.”

Hank hums in response. For now, he sits the bundle of socks and garters to the side, on the edge of the bed. It’s enough distance that Connor isn’t able to reach for them, not without Hank allowing him to. His right hand finds its way back to Connor’s calf and gives it a slow, lazy stroke, trailing his fingers on the synthetic muscle. Connor, on impulse, lays his leg across Hank’s lap. Connor knows the endgame here, or at least he’s pretty sure he does, but the deliberate, exploratory way that Hank is touching him pricks officiously at his mind. The pads of Hank’s fingertips are tracing incidental lines and shapes across his skin, hand still in a loose grip over his leg.

It takes Hank more courage than he expected to move his hand down to cup the width of Connor’s foot. It’s a simple movement, but the intimacy and implication make him hesitate to act. He brings it to his lips, and Connor’s toes flex and curl as his warm breath hits his skin. Realistically, Hank knows he’s got nothing to be hesitant about. Connor is always eager and willing to explore a new facet of their relationship, meeting Hank’s requests with the same earnest curiosity he’s had since they day they met. Still, he hesitates like that for a fraction of a second too long, mouth ghosting above the bridge of Connor’s foot, held firmly in his hand. He spares a look at Connor’s face in time to see him dip his chin and look up at Hank from under his lashes.

“Hank?” Connor starts, and deliberately, slowly catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s a little cold in here. Would you like to help me warm up, before we get dressed?”

It’s a cheap, easy shot. They both know Connor isn’t really cold, can’t feel a meaningful and measurable difference in the ambient room temperature. It does, however, put the nagging doubts in Hank’s mind at ease. He gives him a quick, reassuring answer in the squeeze to Connor’s foot, and presses a kiss to the curve across the top. It’s warm and lingering, and the wet seam of Hank’s lips stays pressed against Connor’s skin as he puffs out a short breath of relief.

“You got anything in mind?”

Connor does have something in mind, a vague shadow of an idea, but he shakes his head.

“Okay then,” Hank lowers his voice and continues, “we’ll have to figure something out then, huh.”

Connor adjusts his foot in Hank’s grip. “By all means.” He’s nudged himself closer, just barely, into Hank’s touch.

Hank trails his kiss from where he’s murmured against Connor’s skin, across the bridge of Connor’s foot, and presses a brave, wet kiss to the base of his toes. He laves his tongue across the joints there, and finally puts his mouth around Connor’s first two toes.

“Oh,” Connor exhales soft and quick, and Hank answers with a muffled hum. It sends a small wave of vibrations through the refined sensors on Connor’s feet.

Hank sucks, keeping his pressure delicate, and moves his way across Connor’s foot. He slips  
his tongue between his toes, lapping around and over each one, and making obscene, shameless noises. He hadn’t particularly intended to put on a show, but he can feel the hot, fixed stare Connor is focusing on him. It makes heat rise to his cheeks.

“That’s,” Connor starts, and trails off in a breathy moan. “Hank, that feels really good.”

Hank pulls off to kiss along the soft ridge on the bottom of Connor’s foot, cradled in his hands around the arch. “You like that, baby?” He says it against his skin, dragging his lips in a slow horizontal line.

“It’s—it’s more intense than I ever thought it might be.”

“You been thinking about this?”

“Not this, explicitly,” Connor draws his bottom lip between his teeth, shiny and slick where he’s ran his tongue. “Not in these exact terms.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

“No, I—“ Connor furrows his brow, and considers. “I think about you touching me, anywhere. Everywhere. Whatever you’d like.” Hank smiles, small but earnest, at the confession. “What do you mean? Show you what?”

Hank sticks out the flat of his tongue instead, and licks along the arch in front of him. For now, this is what he wants. He hears Connor’s breath pick up again as he works his tongue against his skin, and when Connor lets off a quiet moan, he presses dry kisses to the sole of his foot. He trails his kisses to Connor’s slender ankle. In the wake of his movement, the stiff hair of Hank’s beard rubs along the pads of Connor’s feet, sensitive and stimulated.

“Hank, please,” Connor rolls his ankle in a tight circle. He isn’t sure what he’s asking for, but he can feel his systems starting to overload and seek release, his cock beginning to fill out in his boxer briefs. It’s all he’s wearing aside from his white button down shirt, the rest of his clothing still tucked away in the wardrobe where he left it, save for the black trouser socks and garters sat on the far edge of the bed.

Connor finds his ankle back in Hank’s lap as he reaches over the retrieve them, and he misses his dedicated attention already. Hank is unrolling his socks from where they’re efficiently tucked together, and takes one up in his hands to slip the open end over Connor’s waiting foot.

“There you go,” Hank is working the silky fabric over Connor’s toes, to the bridge of his foot, up to his ankle and further beyond. “Just like that, right, baby?”

“That’s right,” Connor answers. It comes out quiet, half under his breath and dazed.

Hank runs his fingers under the elastic on the cuff of the sock. Connor feels like a million tiny sparks are running along his synthetic skin, a current of gratification and wanting and anticipation, running together and indistinguishable from each other. He closes his eyes when Hank picks up his other leg and makes quick work of dressing his left foot in the remaining sock.

“Now these I’ve, uh…” Hank is playing with the metal snaps of Connor’s sock garters when he looks back at him again. “I’ve never worn anything like this before.”

“It should be simple to figure out. You watch me put them on every morning, Hank.”

“Hah! Do I now?”

“Yes,” Connor raises his eyebrows. “You occupy yourself with buttoning your shirt, but you spend most of that time watching me while I finish getting dressed.”

“Smart mouth fuckin’ androids,” Hank mutters to himself, unclipping one garter and wrapping it around the width of Connor’s calf. “Unbelievable.”

He manages to clip the metal buckle back together with less fuss than expected, and gives Connor’s leg a solid pat for good measure. When he finishes with the next leg, he slips his index finger between the elastic and Connor’s calf and pulls back, letting it cut a sharp snap against his synthetic skin. The color bleeds out of his skin at the impact, turning white for a fraction of a moment. Connor is watching him with a hazy look in his eyes.

Hank sits back on his legs to pull his sweatpants down, bunched up in the crease of his knees so he can take his cock in hand and give it a few slow, thoughtful strokes. He’s watching Connor’s face now, the way he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in thought, and it takes Hank by surprise when Connor runs the stocking-covered sole of his feet up Hank’s thigh.

“Here, let me,” Connor murmurs, nudging aside Hank’s hand with his toes. The socks feel soft and silky against the sensitive skin around Hank’s cock, and they both let out a shaky exhale.

Tension and relief flood Connor’s processors in tandem. He feels dizzy with it, a new task he’s eager to experience, the pressing need to please weighing on his mind. Their eyes are locked. Connor’s toes circle light and teasing at the base of Hank’s length, careful pressure with strict precision, before moving down in one long, slow, stroke. Beneath the seam of this stockings, his toes flex, feeling Hank’s firm member filling out as he moves. Hank grabs at Connor’s other foot, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss at the soft dark silkiness of his socks, and leaves Connor’s foot to sit hitched over his shoulder while the other moves against Hank’s skin.

“Connor,” Hank groans. “Fuck.”

“Would you like to feel my toes around your penis, Hank?”

“Come on baby, please,” Hanks is gripping hard at the foot at his shoulder now, thrown over so Connor’s ankle presses down against his neck. It’s soft pressure, but unyielding, mirroring the way Connor’s toes are still playing against Hank’s shaft. He runs them up and down and up again, to Hank’s legs to press into the thick meat of his thighs.

“Tell me if this is good,” Connor whispers. He moves his foot up and off Hank’s shoulder to meet with the other, both soles of his feet resting gently on either side of Hank’s cock. “I just want to make you feel good.”

Both of his heels meet with the other before one moves down again, lifting Hank’s dick where it hangs heavy and low against his thigh. He nudges it up with his arch, already grown mostly to its full length, and gives a light, appraising stroke with the toes of his free foot. Light and gentle precision comes easy to Connor, but he watches Hank carefully, his bottom lip between his teeth as he gauges his reaction. Hank has his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, a soft sheen of sweat that makes him look healthy and alive and glowing in the morning light. Connor knows he’s done well, but he needs to hear Hank say it. He keeps himself still.

“What are you waiting for?” Hank cracks one eye open, and lets out of a huff of a breath through a small grimace. He takes a moment to pull his shirt over his head, leaving him bare of clothes and kneeling on the edge of the bed.

Connor says nothing, and gives him a supplicating look from under his lashes.

“Okay, okay-- that’s so good, Connor. That feels so fucking good and I want you to keep moving. Please, baby.”

Connor, smug and satisfied with himself, cups the arches of his foot entirely around Hank’s cock. He moves gently up to the tip, collects Hank’s precum where it leaks from the slit, and moves it down around the shaft. It’s just enough to relieve the friction of fabric against the delicate skin, and the new sensation causes a fresh bead to form at the head of Hank’s swollen cock.

“You’re really leaking,” Connor says. He wants to taste, to get close enough to rub his face against Hank’s groin and feel the warm slick of semen against his cheek, but he stays focused on making long, smooth strokes from base to tip, soles cupped around him.

“And what about you, huh?” Hank grits out between his breaths and nods in the direction of Connor’s lap. “You holding up okay down there?”

Connor nods back, short and quick and certain. His legs are keeping a steady rhythm, rocking back and forth and over the fat length of Hank’s cock.

“You feel very nice around me, Hank. My feet aren’t quite as sensitive as my mouth and fingers are, but this is— this is very satisf—hey!”

Hank gives a sharp tug and release to the elastic garter at Connor’s calf, followed by another quick snap. He lays his hand flat against the line of Connor’s garter, watching the pale blankness of bare android chassis bleed back into the marble smooth coating of Connor’s pale skin. He presses the meat of his thumb against a freckle, and tries to hide his grin.

“You’re teasing me,” Connor furrows his brow.

“And you’re pouting, Con. Come on,” Hank thrusts. “Pick up the pace.”

Connor keeps one foot braced at the shaft while the other traces light circles on Hank’s balls with the tips of his toes. Hank’s reaction is open and immediate, drawing a thick gasp from his throat. He is still covered in the cool sun of the winter morning, sweat dotted along his forehead, eyes drawn shut for just a moment.

“I’m so close, so fuckin’ close, come on baby please finish me off,” Hank swears under his breath.

Within the span of the next few delicate strokes, Hank finds himself fully hunched over Connor on the bed. The broad line of his back is drawn tight as he rides out his orgasm, spilling hot streaks of cum across the stockings of Connor’s feet. It splatters against the joints of his toes and drips in fat rivulets down to his heel. Connor wants nothing more than to taste it.

When Hank disentangles himself from Connor, he throws himself on the bed and runs a big, shaky hand over his face. Takes a few deep breaths, in and back out, and collects himself. By the time he opens his eyes again, Connor is leaned back against the headboard, one leg raised and bent at an impossible angle, with his foot to his own lips.

“Jesus Christ, Connor, that’s—” Hank’s voice isn’t weak but it is tremulous, breath huffing out around his words. “Okay, you know what? That’s pretty fucking hot.”

Connor moans, half of his toes slipped into his mouth, tongue following the seam of his socks. He laps the cum from his toes, the arched sole of his foot, the curve of his heel, body twisted up in a bowline knot and preening under the attention.

“There you go, get it all. That’s it. Every drop,” Hank breathes. “C’mon, get over here.”

Connor, content with his newly satisfied curiosity, is eager to please. He sits up and swings a leg over Hank’s lap. He’s draped over the wide expanse of his thigh, and the meat of it presses blissfully against Connor’s dick. Until now, he had been intently focused on the feeling of his feet against Hank’s body, and his own pleasure feels painfully unheeded.

“That was,” he kisses Hank squarely on the mouth, “Intense. And very pleasurable.” He swings a reedy arm around Hank’s neck to keep them close enough to kiss, and his free hand busies itself in Hank’s hair, down to grip at the firm bulk of his bicep, along the softness of his belly and sides.

“D’you want me to suck you off?” Sleep and warm contentment flood Hank’s voice like whisky.

“It won’t be necessary.”

“I can feel how hard you are, you know. It’s rubbing against my thigh.”

“Mmmn,” is all Connor gets out, and he lays his forehead against Hank’s shoulder.

He’s moving his hips in long, slow motions along his leg, grinding into Hank’s body below him. The friction is nice but he isn’t quite enough, so he lifts up his hips to put a little space between them.

Hank gets the message without any further prompting, and he slips his hands into Connor’s boxer briefs, gives his ass a quick squeeze, and pulls his shorts down to bunch around his thighs. Hank leaves his hand to rest on Connor’s bottom. It’s less for support than it is for possession, one more point of contact for their skin to meet.

Connor, for his part, quickly picks up where he left off. He settles back down, lithe legs wrapping around Hank’s thick thigh, and rocks against him. Connor’s prick bumps against Hank’s stomach with each thrust. He doesn’t leak as much cum as Hank— he never does— but a little wet patch collects on Hank’s stomach where they come together.

Their kisses keep them locked together at the mouth now, wet and breathy and a little keening. Hank’s hands are starting to wander and grab, and he finds himself with Connor’s foot in his hand again, clasped between his thumb and forefinger to give a firm, reassuring squeeze. He wraps his hand around Connor’s ankle, and the tight hold makes Connor squirm hard into his next thrust.

“Yes,” Connor shakes against him. “More of that, please.” One arm is still holding Hank tight around the shoulders, but the other slips its way down and into his lap. He paws senselessly at Hank’s cock. It’s slick and wet, and satisfyingly fat in Connor’s hands. He feels content just to hold it, to feel the heavy weight as it gives an interested twitch in his palm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hank says, and gives Connor’s calf a dull swat. “I’m not as young as I used to be, Connor. I blow one load, and that’s it. I’m tapped.”

“You’re starting to get another erection,” Connor tilts his head to look up at Hank from where he’s nestled himself into the thickness of his chest.

“Yeah, and he’s not real happy about it either,” Hank avoids eye contact. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all you. Okay?”

“Okay,” he nods.

“That’s my good boy,” Hank does look at him this time, enough to give him a lopsided smile. “Now get back to it.”

The order exhilarates him, though he hadn’t stopped rutting, and Connor finds himself riding Hank’s thigh with enough force to bounce. The sharp smack of his ass against Hank’s leg sets off his pain sensors, a thin-snaking wire of electric in his systems, and he feels dazed against the jolt.

He buries his face in the crook of Hank’s neck again, needy and overstimulated and seeking. With his nose pressed hard against the other man’s skin, he inhales deep and shaky, and Hank smooths his hand up against Connor’s side. He can feel his thirium pumping abnormally fast, from the center of his chest all the way down to where Hank is holding tight to the arch of his foot.

One last long, slow grind into Hank’s lap is what sends him over the edge. Hank strokes his hand along Connor’s socks as he comes, something soft and reassuring that gives focus to Connor’s overtaxed processors. He’s drooled a bit onto Hank’s neck, he realizes, right below where his beard meets bare skin. Connor rests his forehead against the slick line of his own spit.

“You good?” Hank asks.

Connor doesn’t lift his head, but he nods. He is fairly certain he would feel suffocated if he had lungs that functioned like a human respiratory system. Hank kisses the crown of his head and shuffles them to lie back into the pillows.

“Guess you weren’t fucking around about that adaptability program of yours.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” He does lift his head this time, and his eyebrows knit together as he looks at Hank. “I really enjoyed that. All of it.”

“Sure looked like it, yeah. You caught on quick.”

Their bare skin sticks together when Connor pulls himself off of Hank’s lap. He allows Hank to shuffle down the mattress a little before reseating himself at his side, one gangly arm thrown over the wide breadth of Hank’s chest. In turn, Hank rests his hand on the diminutive swell of Connor’s ass.

“There’s so many things I’ve imagined us doing, Hank,” he says with careful thought. “But when it comes to making them a reality, I find that there are so many more things I have left to learn.”

His only answer Hank has for him is a low murmur of reassurance. They’re still pressed together, and they’re content to stay that way in the still sunlight of a lazy afternoon. Connor turns off the display of his internal clock and loses himself in the steady rhythm of their breath.

“You’re lucky we’re working night shift tonight,” Hank finally says. He stretches and rolls over, up and out of bed. The shift of his weight pulls the corner of the blanket down to the floor. “I’m really going to need a nap this afternoon.”

“It’s already afternoon; it’s after one,” Connor smooths the blanket back into a flat plane on the mattress. “We slept in this morning.”

“You let me sleep until one?” Hank narrows his eyes.

“No,” he says primly. “I let you sleep in. I wasn’t aware you had other plans for us today.”

“Yeah, well.”

“That’s not very much of an argument.”

“No argument here,” Hank reaches out a hand to pull Connor up and out of bed.

By the time he’s standing on his own two feet, he already knows that Hank is going to kiss him. What Connor doesn’t expect is the slow, ardent way he does it, cradling his head in his hands and tracing his hairline with his thumb, kissing him fully on the mouth with his tongue along the seam of Connor’s lips. The flood of haptic data sends his processors reeling, and by the time Hank pulls back, he feels weak on his knees.

“No argument here, either.”

“Hmm…” Hank still has his warm palm resting against Connor’s cheek. “Do you wanna go out and get some food? We can go to the diner.”

Connor doesn’t care where they go. He won’t be eating either way. “That does sounds nice.”

“And when we get home, do you…?”

“Yes,” he kisses Hank’s thumb and smiles. “I’ll call us out of work.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! and an extra big thank you to my favorite degenerates for bullying me into finishing this thing. <3


End file.
